


I Remember Goodbye

by fulfilled



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:16:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5200403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulfilled/pseuds/fulfilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard used to rock her to sleep, but he hasn't done that in a long time.  A father's milestones shouldn't include goodbye.</p><p>Originally published March 30, 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Remember Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick one-shot that came to me after the discussion in the "Christopher" thread at TWoP about the differences between Richard and Christopher. So, adina, gooey, dustylil, and gracie55, thanks for unwittingly being the inspiration for this piece.
> 
> The title is from Celine Dion's "I Remember LA," which, for some reason, was running through my head a few days ago. Don't ask why—it's been years since I heard the song.

He used to pick her up out of her cradle after she had fallen asleep, cradling her in his strong arms, her tiny face nestled into the crook between his elbow and his chest. She always woke up, just slightly, and stared up at him with her big, blue eyes, mesmerized by his face, as if memorizing each detail, a solemn pout pursing her tiny rosebud lips. The fuzz of newborn-soft brown hair on top of her head curled down over her forehead, slightly damp from the warm room and the flush of sleep that stained her cheeks rosy.

He would sing to her, making up his own words to the lullabies that her music box played, and she would blink, slowly, slowly, slowly, her eyes drifting shut, and then back open again, longer between each blink, until they stayed closed. This was his favorite moment—that instant in which she surrendered to sleep, going limp in his arms. Her head would relax into the crook of his elbow, her feet would curl up more tightly, her back would mold completely to the curve of his forearm. Still, after she fell asleep, he would hold her, marveling at this wonder that looked so very, very tiny in his arms.

If this was fatherhood, Richard Gilmore could imagine nothing better. This perfect trust and ultimate reliance was exhilarating and frightening all at once, the only undertaking he was frightened of. He could handle business, he could deal with his wife's household demands, and he could glide through the pressures of society without breaking a sweat. This eight-pound ball of little girl, though, was enough to make him question his abilities in every other area of his life. The millions of dollars that passed through his fingers on a daily basis, the knowledge of financial empires that he could build or ruin in an instant, were nothing compared to running his fingers over the soft scalp, knowing just how easily he could hurt her.

She babbled as soon as she figured out that she could. She would be in the swing, sitting in her playpen, pushing herself around the floor in her own unique half-crawl, toddling around in her walker, playing with stuffed animals, all the while giving her opinions on life and love and everything in between, in a language only she could understand. He could listen to her for hours—he would leave his office door open so that he could hear the constant chatter, and the day she reached her arms up and shouted, "Dadadadada!" ranked second only to the first time he held her.

The older she got, though, the more she intimidated him. This tiny whirlwind with the curly brown hair and the big blue eyes flew through the house and through life with a determination that could only be a combination of her parents. Still, neither of them knew quite what to do with her.

He started to lose her the moment he stopped holding her. When she got to be too big to cradle; when she learned to express her opinions and he forgot to just listen to that voice. When she squirmed and wriggled out of his grasp instead of falling asleep against him, viewing his presence as a wall to be scaled rather than a shelter to rest in. When he became too proud of her and began showing her off, the way he would with a new car, or a painting, or a lucrative business deal. The first time he brushed her off, refusing to get down on hands and knees to play a game, choosing instead to finish the chapter of his book.

Sometimes he would look at her and try and see that newborn that had rested so trustingly in his arms, but those eyes were hooded with dark makeup, and the curls were tangled and piled on her head with scrunchies, and the tiny feet that had pressed into his palm were now ensconced in high-tops and legwarmers, and it all baffled him. The voice that had babbled at him now yelled and screamed, "You just don't understand! I hate you! I'm never speaking to you again!" Hands that had once gripped his finger and taken first steps while clinging to him now slammed doors and flipped him off and shut him out.

He didn't know how to go back—it was easier when she was tiny. If that was the physical terror of fatherhood, this is the emotional, and he almost thinks he would rather be cradling a too-soft skull and trying to change a tiny diaper and clean an umbilical cord stump. He didn't know it then, but controlling his large hands in the presence of a newborn was easier than controlling his harsh words in the presence of a teenager.

She became more fragile the older she got, and he never realized it. He was too worried about protecting the tiny bones that he forgot about the tiny psyche, if he ever knew about it in the first place.

Goodbye came in degrees, and he didn't mark the "lasts." He didn't know when they were—everything just changed, gradually, and then faster and faster, and by the time he realized that he had said goodbye to his baby without knowing that it was goodbye, it was too late to mark the occasion.

The second chance he got, he was more reluctant, but the lure of the baby-power scent and the tiny trust of a sleeping baby were too irresistible to walk away from.

The second time, he tried not to care, tried not to get attached, tried to stay away from the bassinet, but at night, when no one was watching, he would sometimes take her from her cradle and pace the hallways with her head tucked into the crook of his neck, crooning lullabies.

The second baby never got to play with him during the day, never called out "Dadadada," never remembered that he held her, because it was always in her sleep. He never crawled on the floor, never read her a story, never played patty-cake.

And yet, while she slept, while all the women in the house slept, he carried her into his study and sat down in the big leather chair, holding her tightly, and told her how much he loved her. He talked for hours, explaining that her presence wasn't a mistake, that she was important, that he had dreams for her, that he wanted to see her grow into a beautiful woman, that he loved her, loved her, loved her. That his heart felt like it was going to burst, and if he thought he was smitten the first time, he was head-over-heels the second.

He carried her to his bookshelves, pointed at the leather-bound volumes, read her the titles that he wanted to, someday, teach her to read, if he could work up the courage to love her during the daylight hours. He spun the globe, playing a child's game, putting his finger on it when it stopped, dreaming of places he could take them—all of them—and telling her of places he had seen.

Her eyes were the same blue as the first, but he rarely saw them. It was only on those rare occasions that she would wake and look up at him, solemn and serious, and he would put her back in her cradle. They looked itoo/i much like the other ones. Too many memories, too many missed chances and things left unsaid.

With the second Baby Lorelai, goodbye came suddenly, a note left at the front door, a stroller missing from the hallway, a dresser cleaned out, and a car taken from the driveway. This one, he could mark as a milestone. This time, he knew exactly when he said goodbye… and yet, he didn't know. He had been preoccupied and busy, and she was getting heavier, and it was cutting into his sleep, so he didn't hold her as much as he used to. Didn't walk her around at night, whispering his hopes and dreams into her sleeping ear. What had once been a nightly ritual had become a rare occurrence, and he couldn't remember what night it had been. Last Tuesday? The Friday before?

Richard stood in the doorway, an arm wrapped around Emily's shoulders, staring out at the road, wondering which direction they had gone in. Wondering where they would end up, how they would manage, whether they would know how deeply loved they were. Knowing that he would probably never truly know the answers to any of those questions.

Goodbye came in stages, taking her away one sarcastic remark and "Dad, you just don't get it" at a time. Goodbye came suddenly, walking out the door in the arms of a young mother who would do her best, and she would grow up without ever really knowing him. The part that wrenched his heart most deeply was that he couldn't remember the last thing he had said to either of them, and, worse, couldn't remember the last time he had said "I love you."

Birth, first steps, first words, first day of school, first date, wedding day. A father's milestones in the lives of his girls. He never would have guessed that goodbye would be the biggest milestone yet.


End file.
